


Small Town Murder Scene

by SouthernBird



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, He really misses Lance, Implied Dirty Politics, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Lotor is the serial killer, M/M, Murder, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Thoughts of a Homicidal Man, Unrequited Love, Violence, implied prostitution, serial killer au, small town, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 19:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10792836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: "Oh, Lance, his love, it is not this one. This one… this one is not him. Where is he? Where could he be? Not here, not in this want to be visage of summer incarnate, the walking embodiment of ocean tides and seashells, not in this thing that purred in his ear, asked him sultrily, ‘wanna have a good time, sir?’Regardless, he must be properly done away with, at least in a way. "--Based on Jaspurrlock's Serial Killer AU





	Small Town Murder Scene

**Author's Note:**

> There are two things I love to sit down and freely write: angst and the internal thoughts of a mad person. 
> 
> Based off of
> 
> [Jaspurrlock's](http://jaspurrlock.tumblr.com/) [Lancelot Serial Killer AU](http://jaspurrlock.tumblr.com/post/159988406472/more-for-mine-and-akrcos-serial-killerlotor-au)
> 
> . It's honesty the most fun to write the grittier part of human psyche again.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

It’s the steady drop of water in a leaky faucet, repetitive and assuring, that draws him out of reverie. The sound, annoying as it is monotonous, yet blessedly so, is something that the shifting snowy waves of static parts for to allow some idea of sanity back into cognitive reactions. Sanity, what a laugh that must be, to impart a characteristic onto such as himself when he is nothing more than an insane parasite that has a particular taste.

His eyes roll, as though his head were stuffed in the cotton fields that line the highway to this dump of a motel and top and bottom are no longer fixed points, to find blood, so damn much blood. The stains of cherries bittersweet are ground into the dirty carpet of the motel room, like he, a grown child, mushed the berries with his own teeth, spat them out, then dug his heel into the flesh and the pits. 

On the bed, the corpse is quiet, dimly lit by the rising sun shining through yellowed curtains, and bless his soul, gone home and drifting farther away, away, away from this earth so desolate and away from his perfect hands, professional in their care for torture. The duct tape is somehow still intact, the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles to the bed post still holding the boy down as though maybe, just maybe, that soul can’t go _anywhere_ now.

Oh, forgive him, the boy had been so beautiful, graced with soft brunette locks and the bluest of summer skies for eyes; such beauty is a weakness, at least for him, for a man so driven to find the epitome of such that had been taken away from him. Gone, gone, _gone,_ gone like the dust that blows in summer breezes over the dry dirt, like headlights fading in the dead of night in attempts to escape from an inevitable— _accidental_ — death. 

His head rolls to the side as he watches the corpse closely as if it will inch with a smidgeon of breath in some false attempt to pursue a life taken too soon. 

(Another play thing, broken, dirtied, and abused. Pity. Such a pity. Just like the one before him and the others before that, nothing appeasing him, nothing that feeds the dark beast that feeds from screams and pleas of sweet things that has _his_ eyes.) 

There’s nary a spot on the corpse that is not red, nothing of the soil, nothing of the water. What a shame, absolute shame. At least his screams had been lovely echoes that reverberated in his head, reminding him what he once had, reminding him of shrieks to stop, Lotor, _stop, you’re hurting me_!

Oh, _Lance,_ his love, it is not this one. This one… this one is not him. Where is he? Where could he be? Not here, not in this want to be visage of summer incarnate, the walking embodiment of ocean tides and seashells, not in this thing that purred in his ear, asked him sultrily, ‘wanna have a good time, sir?’

Regardless, he must be properly done away with, at least in a way. He’s due that, to become the bones that children find in the deepest glens of the woods during their dreamscapes of adventures, to find so that what little of their innocence the world has not already stolen in the dark of wispy nights will truly be his. 

Stupid kid. Should have known better.

The fun thing about small towns is how wanderers can pass by without even a glance so long as they roll in with an air of ‘not stayin.’ Another fun thing is that there’s always a die hard greedy asshole that manages the motel on the outskirts where all the council members take their secret mistresses to rock the beds against the walls. 

Poor kid, for one that propositioned him, he got to share his screams of ache and terror with women over doing their moans and begs. Whores are fun in their own right, but they make damn good background music for sweet screams and pleading blue eyes of _don’t don’t dont—!_

The disgusting thing about humans? Pleasure and pain are synonymous; he knows this, more than well, with how the pleasure lurks deep in curled up ribbons, twinge and tighten languidly with every stab, every cut along nerves and muscles to draw out copper-sweet blood. Nothing quite hits the spot like getting to dig, dig into sweet lacerations and draw out whimpers. Make ‘em deep, make ‘em count, he thinks. 

There’s no art in haphazardly killing someone that isn’t his lost fishie— God, no, what’s a masterpiece without some forethought? Nothing but scribbles drawn with small chubby hands that have no sense of intelligence other than the wonderment of imagination. 

Bones crunching under the sounds of a rusted saw— his favorite, he can’t part with something that was his first instrument of this game— is thrilling enough to ease back the hangover of a fresh kill. He’s a madman, grinning like the sick bastard he is the whole moment he takes each limb, kisses over skin that will soon gray and decay, and situating each piece in bags to take to a dump sight. He used to keep the heads, but after awhile, the eyes go yellow, the skin goes light. 

There’s a growl beneath his breath, a shiver underneath his skin; Lance’s skin had been so gorgeous, like the warm sweetness of caramel blessed by sunbeam heat. The tan lines would leave him salivating, and how he’d be enraptured with the twitches of muscles when drawing a lone fingertip over the borders. 

Skin that bruised like peaches. Skin that smelled of rain showers. Lance’s skin. _Lance._

The head is just a thing he lets drop on top, zipping up the black tarp bag to heft it over his shoulder. There, good as new other than the, ah, unintentional mess of his late night romp. Surely the smears will wash out with cold water and good detergent, but those sheets and curtains probably haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine in twenty years. 

No point in worrying about such trivialities now; there’s a body to dump, another town to roam, and a lost little fishie to find after it swam away from his clutches. 

He nods at an important looking man taking a drag of a cigarette with nothing more than the motel bathrobe and briefs; might be the mayor, indulging in tobacco smoke drawls after fucking a willing body. Who knows? Who cares? 

The bag isn’t as heavy as some in the past, but that’s perfectly fine. Easier to tote into the forest off the side of the road about thirty miles down the highway towards his next wayward destination. Ought to be painless since the hard work he’s already put in will win him time in the end. All he will need is the shovel that sits next to the remains of his latest kill to hollow out the earth in the most idyllic of sites within the woods, and then it will be on to the next ineluctable victim.

There’s a heavy sigh that escapes him once he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, hair splayed about messily as he roams his fingers through the white strands; he’s getting _tired_ , fretful even, that all these bodies that encompass so few (yet enough) of Lance’s splendid features will eventually dull with their fruitful potential. How many more? How many must he rip inside and out before Lance beckons him with siren songs and azure surety?

That little voice, a hissing consciousness that is more likened to nails on the chalkboard and cicadas in the southern heat, enjoins him with the most stern of shakes no, oh no, this will not do; no rest for the wicked, no rest for the enamored. 

He did love Lance, love Lance with demented passion and unhinged loyalty. He _has_ to find him, claim him, chain him to their graves so death cannot even do them part. 

To see those eyes again, those depthless eyes… 

It’s all the more reason to carry on, struggle forth to the ends of the world to retrieve his pretty thing. He _will_ go to Lance, after all, since fate has a funny way of making the world seem small. Meeting again is just a happenstance sort of affair, and one that he will insure does befall them. 

Resolution is a great conspirator; it draws his hand to slip the keys in to ignite the engine, sparks the radio— “ _well it's alright, valentine, leave those street lights far behind”—_ to croon some random tune that will be enough of a distraction as he drives. Roll down the window, he thinks, get in a good waft of gasoline and bid the maybe-mayor goodbye. Time to go, get out before anyone thinks better of a stranger slinking into town and snatching a youth, barely twenty years in age, and spiriting him away. 

Lance awaits, after all, down winding roads and past hills and mountains, over the creeks and rivers that part them, and Lotor intends to not make Lance wait a moment longer. 


End file.
